


That's the Fellow

by daredevilmoon



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredevilmoon/pseuds/daredevilmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Patmore takes a fancy and keeps a keen eye on the new footman. A series of drabbles more than a fic proper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Beryl was, to put it lightly, rather pleased with the new footman. She had few thrills in her life - neverminding  the perfection of her soufflés - but, heavens, this lad was certainly one of the few. At her time of life, she thought even the smallest pleasure did her good.

The maids all seemed to take to him the same, but his smile to them was tight upon its return; this, she noted. She knew better than to suspect some silly young lad held a torch for her, but it was interesting all the same. Thomas flirted, and what fellow wouldn’t? - but his interest notably waned when the girls left the room. Beryl thought him very professional, though her own immaculately professional eyes strayed to him when they could.


	2. Chapter 2

"Our Thomas is quite the looker, isn’t he?"

Beryl had slipped it into conversation behind her sherry, provoking a sharp laugh of surprise from Mrs Hughes. Elsie turned more fully to the conversation, an amusedly displeased expression on her face.  


"Why Mrs Patmore, I never. I know I’ve to watch that boy with the maids, but I never thought I’d have to keep an eye on you. I’ll have Mr Carson after for your bothering his footman," she said, though her eye twinkled.

"I daresay Mr Carson has his own fancies."

"Not poor wee Anna?"

"I should say not!" Beryl said, shocked. She thought it a wonder people could so fool themselves - marking, of course, that she herself had quite learned better. There was a pause for a new glass, wherein she hoped Mrs Hughes was contemplating. "Though I should think your girls are quite safe. Though maybe not from that Gregory so much as he is from them."

"Poor Gregory, he’s so kind."

"Young girls aren’t after kindness. They’d like to moon over handsome faces."

"As do you, apparently."

"I don’t moon. Have you ever seen me moon, working harder than a mule with as little thanks?”

Elsie heaved a sigh, “We’re all very grateful, Mrs Patmore, as your wages -“

"As I was saying, before I was so rudely insulted," she broke in, turning herself fully so that her forearms rested upon the table, "it’s not your girls to worry over - he takes the time to moon a bit himself over Foley."

"Foley — the grocer's delivery - lad? That’s quite an accusation," Mrs Hughes whispered, eyes darting to the door so quickly as to seem to expect her Ladyship to burst in and fire them for not informing her of the shame.

"It’s no accusation, it’s as fact. Whenever the fella comes, our Thomas finds himself in the kitchen, idling with one of my girls and making eyes at Foley. He forgets I’ve got eyes all the way ‘round, silly beggar."

"And does Foley - make eyes back?" Mrs Hughes asked in her same hushed tone.

"Oh, so you’re not so scandalised as all that?" Beryl asked with a chuckle.

"It’s just I’d like to know whether to get another grocer, is all," she informed, indignant. She sat up. "We can’t that sort of thing going on, even if there’s less - evidence than if he were after the maids."

"Oh, I shouldn’t think you’d need to. That Foley is a strapping sort, I imagine he can take care of himself."

"So, you don’t suppose…?"

As to that, Beryl couldn’t really say.


	3. Chapter 3

Beryl never could sleep  terrifically well when the weather changed as it did, the fluctuating humidity setting aches through her. She had sat in her bed for as long as she could stand, reading her most exciting penny dreadful by candlelight until every shadow cast by the guttering light became a threat. She hurried the book to her bedside table and rose, putting on her dressing gown in a frenetic sort of rush to leave her all-too-worrisome room.

The hall, of course, was no better - the stairs, indeed, were worse. Every lamenting groan of the steps beneath her weight set a course of nerves right through her, prompting her to rush down the stairs quick as anything. The servants’ hall may have been thought to be worse for the easing of frights than any place yet, but this  was where Beryl felt most at home. The downstairs was open to the world and its threats, true; but there seemed a protective comfort in the familiarity with her surroundings.

She moved with an ease once she was in the hall, her candle lighting a warm glow around her as she made her way to the kitchens. If she was going to be frightened as a silly maid in her bedroom, with thoughts of murderers like to make old Jack blush, she could stand to do a cook’s preparations to save herself the distraction.

In looking over the menus, however, she found there wasn’t a terrible deal she could do in  preparation.  So she contented herself with a cup of tea and a bit of finnicky tidying, the girls never putting anything back just so.

She hummed to  herself quite contentedly before she heard the sound: just a brief crackle of existence without the house. Glancing to the door of the kitchen, she determinedly continued humming as she sipped her tea, wishing she had romances to read rather than murder stories. She could happily accept a dashing man come to sweep her off of her feet; as to the other option, she daren’t dwell too long on the specifics.

Beryl’s eyes darted around before she immediately went to a skillet she’d just put away (put away properly) and hovered between the kitchen and the servants’ hall, a grimace overtaking her frown. She’d take him, whoever it was.

As she braved the servants’ hall, she heard the outside a little more clearly through the window. Voices. That did nothing to ease her nerves and she approached the outer wall of the room, listening intently.

"You’re so bloody noisy, shut up," one of the voices said. The grocer’s lad. She knew who the other voice  belonged to before he spoke.

"Stop, then," Thomas replied. It was unmistakably Thomas, but he spoke with an ease she’d never heard him use even in his hours off.  A hush followed which broke with shared laughter. "Everyone’s asleep."

Beryl wasn’t sure if she wished she were asleep or not; this was certainly more interesting than her book or any tea, now that she could hear what was being said. She ought to have grown out of  her days of wanting for gossip, but she got so little of it, slaving away in the kitchens, she figured it fair she hadn’t  yet had her fill. She doubted she’d be saying much about this particular intrigue, but maybe she could manage hints.

"You certain?"

She froze, as though she were likely to be heard if she moved.

"Nobody here but us sinners."

"I bet you fancy yourself charming."

"You’re here, aren’t you?"

"And regretting every second. Ah," Foley gasped, and laughed again.

"Maybe not every  second."

Beryl felt herself going a bit red; she shouldn’t have been hearing this. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the occasional stumbling upon an intimate moment (a rather memorable incident when she was yet a kitchen maid and found the cook and the butler having quite a good time sprung to mind), but those she’d fled from. She wasn’t very likely  to linger in the doorways to prolong an awkward moment.

This, however, was slightly different. Slightly safer.

"Every other second?" Thomas asked.

"Yeh. Though you might just bring me ‘round yet."

"I’d thought I had done."

"Bet you think all sorts. Is  that what getting rogered by them toffs does to you?"

At that, her mouth fell a bit ajar. What had been playful seemed suddenly rather serious; she knew all manner of things went on to which she (unluckily) wasn’t privy, but hearing the two men talk about it so bluntly still gave her a bit of a shock.

"Well, we’ll see if you’re any cleverer by tomorrow and find out what  rubs off."

That sounded a bit more like Thomas.

There was a thump which she couldn’t help but think he probably deserved, though it was quickly evident that it hadn’t devolved into anything so unfortunate as a scuffle. A high, hitching sigh was the last thing she heard before she finally tore herself with a speed many wouldn’t have thought her capable of.

It was that she simply couldn’t stay any longer, had, indeed, stayed too long. As it was, she thought it’d be weeks before she could look Thomas in the eyes.


End file.
